Valkyries
by Sun Queen
Summary: The tale of three female mercenaries, a human, and elf and a dwarf. NOT A MARY-SUE OR A ROMANCE!!! Chapter 8 is up!!
1. The Battle Off the Straight Path

Warning, some book and movie spoilers ahead, especially for Return of the King.

  
  


Okay, first I'll say what this fic isn't. It is NOT a Mary Sue, I swear. It is NOT a romance, I swear. None of my characters will fall in love with Legolas, none of them will help carry the Ring into Mordor, nor will they ever travel with the Fellowship, I promise. Hell, they won't even come into contact with them, with some small exceptions. No, this is just action, adventure, and a bit of shameless girl-power, 'cause Tolkien didn't see fit to include more than TWO women in the entire Ring Trilogy!! *pant pant* Okay, I'm fine. But this fic is dedicated to those who cheered when Arwen kicked Ringwraith ass (movieverse, sadly), and when Eowyn took down the Witch-King (Go Eowyn!) I figured there had to be a few chicks running around Middle Earth, and this is the story of three of them. I'm sorry if this chapter is confusing, and I'll clear it all up as I post more.

  
  


This fic was co-written with Ivory Moon, aka my sister.

  
  


Disclaimer: Middle Earth, every member of the Fellowship, the One Ring, all belong to Mr. Tolkien aka God. I own a pen collection, and a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers, and nothing else. Since I'm writing in the book-verse, I tried to stay faithful to the canon. Please read and review, criticism appreciated, and flames will be used to light a signal fire, so you can come and tell me to my face why you think my writing sucks. 

  
  


Now, on to the fun stuff.

  
  
  
  


Valkyries, by Sun Queen and Ivory Moon

  
  


We were outside the gates of Mordor, and I was fighting my very first full-scale battle.

  
  


Roiling gray clouds billow through the sky, every so often illuminating the plains with a flash of lightning. Rain is falling, blending with the blood and the mud, sometimes hiding the chaotic battle behind a silvery mist.

  
  


A cacophony of sound blows past my ears; death-screams of my fellow Men, of Orcs, and the occasional keening cry of an Elf. Anytime I pick up a trace of this sound, I pray in my heart that it isn't Selka who has fallen.

  
  


The tunic I wear is slashed and bloody; my own blood, and that of the Orcs that I've killed has stained the rust-red leather a slimy black.. Beneath it, my chain mail (a heavy coat), is unbroken, thank the Valar. My leggings are black with mud, and my ragged boots can barely grip the slippery ground. I'm desperately trying to keep my balance as I swing my sword, aiming for a throat, an arm, a heart...

Between the screaming, the laughter, the rain and the lightning, the entire battle has taken on an air of unreality, like a nightmare so vivid that you can't wake up. I swing and stab, and block and parry, fighting the urge to lose control, to start screaming like the Orcs, to tear and kill like a wild animal. 'Cause if I lose control, I know that I will die. Slash, parry, stab, the cycle continues.

  
  


A fell creature lunges at me; an Orc, one of the small, black, Mountain variety. Blood and mucus stream from his smashed nose, and his small, red eyes gleam with pain and madness. He draws back his lips and hissed, almost overwhelming me with the stench of his breath, and the sight of his rotted, broken teeth. He's lost his sword, so he grabs for my neck with his clawed, scabby hands. He's ducked inside the reach of my sword, so I punch his eyes as hard as I can with my free hand, twisting my fist so the studs on my leather wrist guards catch him in the forehead. The blow paralyses my arm, right to the shoulder, but I hear bone smashing, and the Orc drops with a screech. I frantically flex my arm, trying to restore feeling before I am attacked again. I wish Kharapel was here to watch my back, like in all our other battles. But I lost track of my Dwarvish companion almost immediately after the fighting started, and now I know not whether she lives or if she has fallen.

  
  


And many have fallen. Scattered about me are the bodies of Men and Orcs who lie wherever they fell, battered and cold, their eyes glazed in death. Against my will, my mind begins to wander, to the family and friends and wives who will wait on the walls of Gondor, and weep for the men who will never come home. And what of my family? Do they ask the Winds for tidings of me, when they see a lone woman riding to the Gate of Kings? 

  
  


Hissst. I hear the hiss of an arrow an instant too late, and suddenly, a black shaft is embedded in my ribs, an inch below my heart. Sweet Valar preserve us...I bite back a screech as I fall to the ground, rolling up next to the foul, reeking corpse of a huge Orc, who performs the kindest act of his afterlife by shielding me from view. I hear a hoot of triumph from my enemy, and I grit my teeth, waiting for him to come and finish me off.

Nothing happens. He doesn't come. And I'm left with hot, embarrassing tears leaking from my eyes, mingling with the blood that's soaking my undershirt, beneath my chain mail and tunic. The arrow burns me, the worst pain I've ever felt, a fire in my chest that spreads through my arms and my legs, and behind my eyes. The rain and the mud are icy cold, but the blood is warm, and the Orc-corpse is still steaming. A stone digs in between my shoulder blades, but it can't distract me from the ugly wound below my left breast, obscured by my armour and clothing. I resist the urge to rip the arrow out, 'cause I know that it'll only bleed worse; my only hope is to leave it where it is, and hope someone finds me.

  
  


"Jaidru, you know no one's going to find you." A cold, nasty voice, the one that's always there to remind you of the worst possible outcome. "You'll lie here, and you'll bleed, and you'll die, and no one will ever dig you a grave, or shed a tear for your worm-ridden carcass."

  
  


Shut up.

  
  


"Don't scream, 'Dru. You'll attract the orcs, and you know what they do to little lost girls..."

  
  


And so here I lie, blood, rain, and tears mingling, and I wonder what the hell I was fighting for. 

  
  


"Midway along the journey of our life 

I woke to find myself in a dark wood, 

for I had wandered from the straight path.

  
  


How hard it was to tell what it was like,

this wood of wilderness, savage and stubborn

(the thought of it brings back all my old fears),

  
  


a bitter place! Death could scarce be bitterer.

But if I must show the good that came of it

I must talk of things other than the good."*

  
  


So, since I'm going to die, won't you stay with me a while? My name is Jaidru, by the way, and I'm a mercenary. I was travelling with an Elf, Selka, and a Dwarf named Kharapel. We hooked up with this mass of Gondorians who were headed off to fight, but we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. I wish I hadn't talked my friends into this, I hope they're still alive...

  
  


Are you a soldier too? Stay, please!

  
  


I could tell you, if you'd stay but a minute. I could tell you exactly when and where I wandered from the straight path, for now I'm in a dark woods indeed. Please, stay with me, and I'll tell you the tale of Jaidru, the Lost, the Fallen, and how I found myself here.

  
  


Don't leave me... 

  
  
  
  
  
  


To be Continued...Review, please!!

  
  
  
  


*Dante, "The Divine Comedy: Inferno", Canto I, lines 1-9

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Boys, Daggers, and Elves

Same disclaimers apply, blah blah blah. This chapter's mostly character description. We'll have one more chapter of this, then we can get back into some more action. Since you were my first reviewer, Abigail, I've named a character after you. Cheers, Sun Queen and Ivory Moon  


Chapter Two: Boys, Daggers, and Elves  
  
Thanks for staying. Dying alone isn't really high on my to-do list. Well, here follows the Life and Exploits of Jaidru, Elf-Friend and companion of the Dwarves. I hope you brought a quill and parchment to write it all down... 

I was born Lady Drusilla Tee'gana of The White City, about twenty years ago, to a noble family, highly placed in the court of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.

And right out of the womb, my family knew I was going to be trouble.

I was a very nasty baby, the kind who threw up on the fresh laundry, who squalled all night long, and waited till the nurse's back was turned to flick my oatmeal at the wall. When my teeth began to come in, I used to chew on the tapestry of our family tree that hung on the wall in our dining hall. My parents were very proud that we could trace our lineage back to the earliest days of Gondor, with a forefather who'd fought in the Last Alliance.

(I also think I had a great-great-aunt who'd run off with a stableboy from Rohan, but it wasn't exactly a topic of dinner conversation.)

Anyways, after I'd grown up a little, and stopped drooling on the names of my honoured ancestors, I discovered the *ahem* Great Outdoors. My sisters Abigail and Bethany, five and seven years my elders, were appalled at the worms, beetles, and leaves that I'd cart in day after day, proudly displaying my treasures as though they were worth more than my mother's mithril bracelet.

My parents were, shall we say, less than enthusiastic about my habits of tramping about outside the city walls, following the packs of boys who would set up archery targets, dummies for sword practice, and other wargames. I must have been quite the sight, a scrawny, grubby little girl, my blond curls in tangles, the hem of my dress hitched up above my knees, bare feet pattering as I ran to keep up with boys. Jai, my long-suffering old nurse, would huff and puff behind me, wailing about wild little ladies who'd meet foul ends if they didn't come home and finish their embroidery.

The boys tolerated my presence, occasionally, when I brought cream tarts that I'd stolen from the kitchen. Other times, they'd yell at me until I stormed off to sulk in the courtyard of my parents' home. There were the leaders of the pack, Boromir and Faramir, the Steward's sons. They were fascinating creatures, taller and stronger than me, for Boromir was twelve years old at least, with short, silky hair, and eyes that flashed in the sun. I'd sit and watch him, for he and his brother would spar with wooden swords while the other boys shouted encouragement. 

I was only five at the time, so I never quite understood the guarded look in Boromir's eyes as he fought his smaller brother. Faramir was shorter, yes, but he was quick and agile; I had seen him fight larger boys to exhaustion. Now I know that the younger brother was never destined to rule, and I think Boromir always half-expected Faramir to attack him for real.

And I think, somewhere in the depths of his soul, Faramir was waiting for his brother to die.

But I'd watch these two titans clash, and I'd wonder about those guarded looks, the half-concealed flinches.

One day, in early spring, I was following the boys as per my custom. I must have been chattering even more than usual, for Boromir had had quite enough. Only yesterday, I'd trodden on, and broken his favourite bow. Now, he swung around, towered over me, and growled. "Go home, little Drusilla, before the Orcs come for you. Do you know what they do to little lost girls?" He smirked, purposely making it look menacing.

I was scared, but I was five years old, a strong girl despite my size, and I could take care of myself. I planted my fists on my hips, stood on my tiptoes, and stared him in the eye. "If the Orcs are going to come for me, I'll need a sword to fight them!" I pointed at his belt, where his dagger hung in a leather scabbard. "Give me yours!"

Boromir's mouth dropped open; I must have looked a comical little figure, balanced on my tiptoes, hands on my hips, using my best threatening glare. The other boys burst out laughing, which made Boromir round on them. Most of them had the sense to shut up as fast as they could.

Except Faramir. He strode forward, and crouched to look me in the eyes. "Truly, little 'Dru, you'll need a sword to defend yourself. I hereby appoint you the keeper of the Shortest Dagger of the Steward." He unbuckled his belt, and ceremoniously handed me his beaten iron knife, complete with a leather sheath.

I was ecstatic. What was a mere dagger to him was a sword as long as my forearm! I snatched it from him, and waved it experimentally, mimicking the thrusting and parrying movements that I'd watched the boys practising daily. They whistled and cheered, as Faramir and I circled, mock duelling. He fell to the ground, clutching his heart as though I'd struck a mortal blow, laughing all the while. I blew him a kiss, like my sister Bethany once had to one of her admirers. Boromir just scowled.

From that day on, I was no longer shunned by the group of boys. I wasn't universally accepted, for Boromir and several others maintained a healthy dislike of me, but they would let me tag along wherever they went. Sometimes, they would pause and watch me thoughtfully, as I stood a little ways away, and practised with my dagger. I'd close my eyes, purse my lips in concentration, and copy the movements that I'd seen so many times. Sometimes, I'd try to wield a wooden sparring sword, but it was too long and heavy.

Swordplay was the only thing that could occupy my interest for long. I hated embroidery and spinning, and I scorned the flute and the lyre. Any efforts to make a little lady of me failed. So, in total exasperation, my parents gave up, and let me run free. After all, they had two lovely young daughters, already engaged for marriages that wouldn't take place until their sixteenth birthdays; they didn't really need to turn me into a member of the Court. Now, I realize they probably meant to sucker some poor Rohanian into a marriage with me. I would have pitied whoever he was.

So, this is how my childhood progressed. I believe they were, without a doubt, the happiest days of my life.

**********

I know you must be utterly bored with me prattling on and on about my oh-so-happy childhood. So I'll wrap it up soon, but there is one more event that greatly affected my later life. 

One fine summer day (I'm quite certain I was eight), I'd wandered away from the company of the boys, heading south down the Seaward Road. I wondered if I wandered far enough, I'd find the Great Water, where the screaming gulls wheel and soar on the wind. 

At any rate, I was walking south, just enjoying the sunshine on my bare skin, for I'd rolled up my sleeves and hiked up my skirt. I'd given old Jai the slip, and she was quite possibly going mad, tearing about in that fussy way of hers, looking for me. I also had a cheese pastry and a bottle of creamy milk that I'd stolen from the kitchen, wrapped up under my skirt. Life was good. 

Shimmering in the distance, I saw a group of figures, too far away to be identified. Common sense would have advised that a lone girl should get off the road till this group of strangers passed, but common sense and I were never on speaking terms. So I skipped towards them. If they were Orcs or goblins or evil bandits, let them come! I had my trusty dagger, and I wasn't afraid to use it!

The figures had resolved themselves into tall, slender beings, shining gold in the sun. Their clothes were dark, earthy shades, but their skin and hair were luminescent. Eyes as dark as twilight, and as gentle as a spring rain. Voices that were purer than any minstrel's lyre, and a language that sounded like singing. I stared; these could not be Men, they must be fairies, or angels!

They must have seen my slack-jawed astonishment, for they laughed, and stopped beside me. There were many of them, ten at least, and they surrounded me, stroking my curly hair, and speaking to me in their sweet voices.

"Little girl-child."

"Where do you wander?" 

"You're far from the Great City, little friend."

I was suddenly acutely aware of my sun-browned arms, and my dusty dress, and how poor I looked in comparison to the glowing radiance of the strangers, but I asked in a whispery voice if they were angels. 

They laughed their musical laughs, and told me, nay, they were Elves.

Elves! Like the ones in the stories and songs, who'd fought with my ancestors in the Last Alliance. Well, obviously, these weren't strangers, so I had no need to be shy! I proudly showed them my little dagger, and sang a Gondorian anthem that all children learned out of the cradle. They smiled and clapped, then one of them, a woman, I think, straightened and began to sing a song I'd never heard, with words I couldn't understand. But it made me want to laugh and cry, all at the same time. I never learned the words, or discovered what she had said, but I hum that tune to this very day.

When she finished, I asked them where they were going. They looked almost wistful for a moment, then they answered, "The Grey Havens."

"Where is that?" I asked them.

Many, many leagues west of here, they replied. It was at the mouth of the Sundering Sea. Their journey had been long; these were Silvan folk, from a great forest far to the north. They would continue north-west to Lothlorien, where more of their kin would join them on their way to the Undying Lands.

They walked with me until the walls of Minas Tirith were in sight. Then they turned, and made as if to continue on the road west. I bid them goodbye, wished them a safe journey, and told them they must return to Gondor one day, to visit me.

They looked sad, and told me that their kind was leaving Middle-Earth, and that they were destined to never return. "May the Valar protect you on your path under the sky, little friend." And I never saw them again.

I went home that night and cried myself to sleep, for the Elves that I would never meet again, and for the great beauty that our world had lost.

**********

The Elves occupied my mind for many days, as summer turned to fall. I'd taken to wandering, hoping to glimpse more Elves travelling west; alas, their kind truly was gone, or so I thought, for I never saw another in all my years of childhood. But I was happy with my life nonetheless; I was free, and maybe one day I might leave, travel to Rohan perhaps, to learn horsecraft. 

I have a truly nasty habit that I still possess, the ability to never see a major problem developing until it crawls up and bites me in the ass.

For this reason, I didn't even notice when Bethany got sick.  
  


To be Continued...review, please!   
  



	3. Beth and Abby

A Note from Sun Queen: Hi everyone! Sorry this chapter took so long, my life has taken a turn for the busy. It's also pretty short, because I split up all the stuff that I'd intended to put in this chapter. Look for the next part in a few days.

  
  


I know the summary promises THREE mercenaries, but it is primarily Jaidru's story, and will remain so until much later. However, I will be introducing Selka after the next chapter, and Kharapel soon after. I promise! The summary didn't lie!

  
  


I should also mention that this story will have some angsty parts, like this chapter. It's only to be expected, because who can tell a life story and exclude all the parts that went wrong? The violence in the first chapter, and some mature subject matter throughout are the reason for the PG-13 rating. And in order to prevent Jaidru from suffering from an acute case of Mary-Sueness, she won't face everything with a brave smile and a song; we can't all be perfect, can we?

  
  


Cheers, and don't forget to review on your way out.

  
  
  
  


Chapter 3: Beth and Abby

  
  


It was quite obvious to me that my mother had always favoured Bethany.

  
  


My oldest sister was fifteen by this point, three seasons away from her marriage. I had always known my sister was engaged; had been, in fact, since her birth, but I had never asked to whom. At any rate, she was going to make a breathtaking bride.

  
  


My mother had been, in her prime, one of the most beautiful women in Minas Tirith. Tall and stately-slim, with curly hair that was such a clear brown that it flowed like water down to her hips. I can still see her, dressed in one of her expensive brocade gowns, diamond earings glittering, as she strolled sedately in the gardens or the hall. That was my earliest memory of her, a view from old Jai's strong arms. As the years wore on, the skin on her face wasn't drawn so tight, her body sharper and not so curvy, and streaks of white had begun to mar her glorious hair. Still stately, but more a matron than maiden.

  
  


But Bethany, ah! She was a mirror reflection of my mother in all her glory! The same silken roan hair, the same eyes, blue as cornflowers, a smile so dazzling that it set the sun to shame.

  
  


I too had inherited my mother's curly hair; long and glorious, but mine had darkened to a tawny shade from its original gold. My eyes were brown, not blue, and after the first of my child-teeth had fallen out, my adult ones had grown in crooked. At eight years old, I was convinced that I'd never become a beauty like my mother and sister.

  
  


Abigail was also comely, though not the radiant flower that Bethany was. Her face more resembled mine, wider and more open, with high cheekbones and dark eyes. Still, at thirteen summers, she attracted attention wherever she went, despite the fact that she too was engaged.

  
  


At any rate, the fall that I turned nine, Bethany got sick. Really sick. And I never had a clue.

  
  


All I noticed that autumn was that when I returned from a day's expedition, Jai would be there, shushing me, and hustling me off to the smallest dining hall, where Abigail and I would dine alone, without our parents.

  
  


I thought nothing of this for the first week. As I said, I had the tendency to ignore anything that wasn't a sign of something good and happy. But one night, at a particularly quiet meal, I screwed up my courage to ask The Big Question.

  
  


"Abby," I asked, "What's going on?"

  
  


Now, if I had been the Loud Sister, and Beth had been the Perfect Sister, Abby had been the Quiet Sister. Serious and clever, she heard and saw everything that went on in the Court. I had often heard her and Beth giggling over which young buck was in love with which maiden this week, and who was the real father of Lady Marrika's child?

  
  


At any rate, she stopped poking at her food, looked at me, and sighed. "Jaidru, you are the most self-absorbed child in Gondor, do you know? If you spent any time in the Court, you would know! And it's your own sister!" Suddenly, she burst into tears.

  
  


My eyes widened. I had never seen my sister cry.

  
  


"Bethany is sick, Jaidru. She has lung-rot."

  
  


Lung-rot! This was scary, this was bad. People died from lung-rot.

  
  


My plate smashed to the floor as I turned and ran from the hall. I barely heard Abby yelling to me to come back as I barrelled up the stairs towards Beth's chamber. The heavy door was shut, but I could hear murmurings within.

  
  


I slammed through the door and took in the horrifying scene: the room, sweltering hot, dark except for the massive fire that burned in the grate. My mother, her eyes crimson, standing pale and composed by the window, my father holding her hand. A Healer, the one who'd once set my broken wrist, standing in his white robes beside the carved canopied bed. And huddled under the covers, my sister Bethany, her beautiful brown hair glistening with sweat, her eyes bright with fever. Every few moments, a wracking cough would make her entire body shudder.

  
  


I froze in the doorway, unable to enter this hellish chamber. My mother turned towards me, accusation in her reddened eyes, and I spun and flew down the hall as fast as I could run, headed anywhere, any place but here.

  
  


**********

Now, a little test to see how well you've been paying attention. My sisters were both engaged, true or false? True. Now, when had they gotten engaged? Right after their respective births. Can you see what's coming?

  
  


My eldest sister died a fortnight later.

  
  


And I was officially screwed. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


To Be Continued...


	4. Eowyn

A Note From Sun Queen (and Ivory Moon too): Hey everyone! Thanks for the reviews. I realize that some people might not understand the significance of the title. No one has asked about it, but I figured that I should define what a valkyrie is. They were originally amazon-like war-goddesses from Norse mythology, who rode over battlefields on their winged horses or dragons, slaying and carrying away the wounded or the honoured dead. Later, they were 'romanticized' into beautiful, vulnerable swan-maidens, and basically became the glorified waitresses in Valhalla, or damsels in distress for heroes to rescue. *mumblemumble damned-male-chauvinist-myth-and-opera-writers! mumblemumble* Anyways, I think the earlier valkyries were much stronger, more appealing characters, which is where I drew the title for this story from: think strong, kickass goddesses who didn't need any guy to come along and rescue them. Go girls!

  
  


I also took a bit of liberty with Tolkien's canon. Since they didn't really talk much about Eowyn's past, I put her in Minas Tirith for a couple of years. Live with it. And for those who don't know, finishing school is where young ladies would learn wifely arts, such as spinning, weaving, singing, how to tend their houses, and basically how to sit and look pretty so they could attract good husbands. 

  
  


One more thing, I swear I'll get Jaidru out of Gondor by the next chapter. Yeah, I know, promises, promises. Please bear with me, this is gonna be a long fic.

  
  


Chapter 4: Eowyn 

  
  


There is an old proverb in Gondor: "Take nothing for granted, lest you anger The Golden Lady." This was Dame Fortuna, the mythical Golden Lady of Chance, presiding over her Balance Scales and the Wheel of Fate, who can give both give and snatch away all the glory in the world. 

  
  


I really should have taken her seriously.

  
  


At any rate, Dame Fortuna must have been pissed as hell at yours truly, because when my sister died, sweet Valar, did she ever drop the heavy end of the hammer on me.

  
  


One morning, soon after my sister's burial in the family crypt, my parents called me into the hall. I was dressed, as usual, in an old, sturdy dress, suitable for whatever adventure I'd set my sights on for that day. Unfortunately, it could never be.

  
  


I can still remember my father, sitting in a patch of morning sunlight, dressed in his court finery, a tunic of black mourning-velvet with golden trim and hose. A black cap adorned his head, covering his now-scanty blond hair. Usually an easy man, this morning his brown eyes were resolute, and his face was severe.

  
  


And my mother...she was sitting beside him, emotionless, lines that I had never noticed now deeply carved into her face; rigid and cold, like an ice-carved statue that even the morning sun couldn't warm.

  
  


They bade me to sit, and I did, fidgeting, tugging at the hem of my dress, careful that they didn't see the dagger knotted under my skirt. I felt as though I was looking at two giants, not my parents, and I felt a tremor in my stomach. Whatever they had to say, I knew it would not bode well for me.

  
  


My father looked me in the eyes and cleared his throat. "Drusilla, now that your sister is gone, things have changed." He said 'gone', not 'dead', as though she might walk through the door at any moment. My mother stiffened. "Now that she's gone, your mother and I, that is, your entire family, have different expectations of you."

  
  


Uh-oh.

  
  


He continued, "Now, your sister was betrothed to somebody very important, and it is vital to the honour of this family that we carry through with the marriage contract."

  
  


Oh crap.

  
  


"For this reason, you will be taking Bethany's place, and you will marry her intended after your sixteenth birthday."

  
  


Oh, a million times crap. Time to leave, 'Dru. Get out of the chair, and run like hell.

  
  


He must have seen my eyes widen in horror as I began to inch back, for he glared sternly, and said, "Sit down, Drusilla." Reluctantly, I obeyed.

  
  


My mother began to speak, her voice as emotionless as her face. "You will become a lady, Jaidru, a proper member of the Steward's Court. Too long have we let you run wild like a perfect little Amazon. You will attend the finishing school where your sister Abby studies, where you will learn the proper behaviour so you will not disgrace your family."

  
  


I was appalled. This was a far cry from the distant, regal mother with whom I exchanged words once or twice a day. She was cool, yes, and often didn't acknowledge my presence, but she had never said anything so unkind to me before. All I could figure was that the Beth's death must have hurt her enough to change her.

  
  


Unfortunately, it had strengthened her resolve, for much as I wailed, begged, wept, and threatened, my parents stood firm. Abby was already engaged; it wasn't her duty. I would become a lady, and take Beth's place in court.

  
  


I had run from the hall, from our home, through the streets, and out the Gate of Kings, the main entrance to the city, tears streaming down my face, so I barely see. I was quite a distance down the road, before I stopped, gasping and sobbing.

  
  


I sat down by a rustling beech tree, overcome with misery. This wasn't how my life was supposed to turn out, not as a dainty little trinket on the arm of some old lord. I took a deep breath, and screamed.

  
  


Every drop of rage, fear, and despair in my child's heart was wrung out of me in that scream. I screamed my fury to the unfeeling sky and plains, to a world where the sun would rise, and the stars would shine, regardless of whether Drusilla Teegana lived or died, or was married against her will. 

  
  


A storm of crows blew out of the tree, squawking their annoyance at the teary child who had startled them. I watched them bitterly; brainless birds, they were free, and I was not.

  
  


Fly away, heartless crows. Don't dwell on your little kindred, whose wings have just been broken. 

  
  


I saw a figure in the distance; sweet old Jai, coming after me. Even in the distance, I could see tears on her face, too. And it was at that moment that I swore I'd get out of here, no matter what it took. These wings would soar, or I would die. There was nothing in between.

  
  


I wrapped my arms around her, and she let me cry.

  
  


**********

  
  


They had taken away all my old clothes, my little wooden practice sword, but I'd hidden my dagger beneath my mattress, so they never found it. They took away any remnant of my old life, cleaned me up, and dressed me up in finery. Today I would start in Mistress Merial's Finishing School For Young Ladies, housed in a palatial building on the sixth level of the city. I was determined to kick and scream the entire way. Maybe, just maybe, if I made life hell for everyone, my family would give up on the whole idea.

  
  


But I knew, deep in my heart, that this wasn't so. Marriage contracts are sacred bonds, and my family would sooner kill me than lose their honour over my refusal. I had heard such tales, of wayward daughters and their gruesome ends, and to this day, they make the hair on my neck stand on end.

  
  


So I was scared. Terrified really, and ashamed that I was so weak. I was utterly conflicted, torn between defiance and fear. For the first months of finishing school, I went along with the Mistresses, the other girls, and I did as I was told. And how I hated myself for it.

  
  


Then Eowyn came.

  
  


**********

It was a bright spring morning, and I was eleven years old, the morning she arrived. I was dutifully working on my tapestry, under the watchful eye of Mistress Gwenefar, when Mistress Merial, the crabby old lady who owned the school, sailed into the room. I had always secretly thought she looked like a nasty old horse, who'd sooner kick you than look at you.

  
  


At her side was a pretty blond girl. Her skin was pale, her hair fell in shining braids down her back, and she walked with the demure step of a perfect little princess. She smiled politely, revealing her perfectly straight teeth. I hated her instantly.

  
  


"Ladies," announced Mistress Merial, her voice never raising nor lowering, the mark of a well-bred woman, "This is Lady Eowyn, of the ruling family of Rohan." Here her voice dropped just a notch, becoming ever so slightly condescending. Proper Gondorians were better than our horse-raising cousins, after all.

  
  


"Welcome, Eowyn." Gwenafar dropped into a curtsy. She was my least favourite Mistress; she had a high, whining voice, and the tendency to smack my knuckles hard when I asked too many questions. Ladies are meant to be seen and not heard, after all.

  
  


The next thing I heard was: "I would like you to sit here, next to Drusilla." Noooooo! I was stuck sitting next to Little Miss Perfect! Wonderful, just plain wonderful. She sat in the chair next to mine and folded her hands in her lap, looking truly saintly. I wanted to strangle her. Instead, I gritted my teeth and continued working on my tapestry, as Mistress Gwenafar of the Whiny Voice left the room to fetch her some sewing materials.

  
  


I heard the croaking an instant before the screeching started. The was a enormous, warty brown toad lurching about the table, tangling up embroidery threads! I grinned and clapped my hands in delight; finally, something to liven up the day! The other girls were screaming, jerking away, as the toad let out a satisfied 'buurr-APPPP!' and knocked over the large ceramic inkwell, spilling a black stain over the half-finished tapestries.

  
  


The girls were gone, and I could hear their screams echoing down the corridor. Pretty soon, some one would come running to see who had been murdered. I glanced around, looking at the ruined tapestries, the tangled silk threads, the ink that was dripping off the table to stain the carpet. I grinned; such a lovely scene of chaos-what the hell?

  
  


Eowyn was there, sitting in her chair, her innocent smile still in place. Then, she turned, winked at me, and scooped the inky, croaking toad back into the pocket of her gown. I glanced down, and muffled a snort when I saw she also had a big brown rat concealed there.

  
  


Suddenly, Little Miss Perfect didn't seem so bad after all.

  
  
  
  


To Be Continued...


	5. Run Like Hell

Chapter 5: Run Like Hell

  
  


There was a war brewing; even I, a self-absorbed twelve-year old, saw the signs. Orc-raids from the Shadow Land were becoming more and more frequent, and our ranger patrols often reported home shaken, spinning tales of a group of nameless black horrors. The atmosphere in the White City grew tenser, as the shadow in the East grew darker.

  
  


But what did a possible war matter to me? I was still a child, and now I had a new best friend to distract me from the world. Eowyn was pretty, funny, and the nicest person I had ever known, with the possible exception of Jai. She acted so innocent, no one ever suspected her of anything; I learned well from this. Between the two of us, we got away with murder.

  
  


Well, technically, not murder, but we got away with a lot of stuff. Eowyn taught me more about a lady's behaviour than finishing school ever had. She taught me how to walk demurely, keep my mouth shut, smile politely, then stick a garden slug down someone's dress while their back was turned. She taught me how to run, spit, and swear with the best of them.

  
  


She taught me how to fly.

  
  


One night, long after I had been abed, I woke to hear a soft rapping at my window. The curtains of my bed had been drawn, and the fire had been banked to its embers. I stole out of bed, clutching my little dagger, and crept to the window.

  
  


I was utterly floored when I saw Eowyn on my balcony, grinning like a mad cat. She was dressed for bed, in a pale nightgown, but she wore a dark cloak over it. There was something long strapped to her back, under the material; it clanked whenever she moved. As she climbed through the window-frame, I saw her nightgown was torn in places, and her bare legs were splotched with dirt.

  
  


"What are you doing here? How did you get up here?" I asked, helping her through the frame. She landed lightly, and scampered over to make sure my door was shut.

  
  


"'Wynnie?" I asked.

  
  


She grinned at me again, and answered, "Your folks really shouldn't have put a rose trellis right next to your window. The back garden gate was unlocked. I let myself in."

  
  


"Wow." I had to admit, I was impressed. Still, I wondered why my best friend was skulking around in the dead of night. "Planning to run away?" I joked. "You're ill-prepared, miss, if you intend to fight off the orc-hoards in your nightdress!"

  
  


"No," she smiled, "I'd fight them off with these!" The package on her back landed on my bed with a thwump.

  
  


"Oh, sweet Valar..." I'm pretty sure my eyes nearly fell out of my head. Eowyn had brought two full-sized steel fighting swords!

  
  


"Where did you get these?" I asked in awe, as I fingered the blades reverently. The glow from the hearth reflected off their shining length, their leather-wrapped hilts smoothed by wear, runes and symbols of an ancient tongue carved along the edges of the blades... they seemed to be a matched set, each one three feet from pommel to point. I hefted one, swinging it experimentally; it was heavy, but not overly so. The swords were nicked and time-worn, and they weren't fancy, but to me, they were beautiful.

  
  


The blade hissed as it sliced through the air, and I laughed as loudly as I dared, revelling in the way the sword felt in my hands, the coolness of the metal, the smoothness of the grip, the way it flashed in the firelight...I remembered the way I'd once handled a wooden practice sword, when I'd been younger.

  
  


It didn't hold a candle to this!

  
  


Eowyn had grabbed the other sword. I stopped, and watched her going through the motions; she had obviously studied swordcraft, for she had the practised ease of someone who had knew exactly what they were doing.

  
  


"Where did you get these, 'Wyn?" I asked, when I could trust my voice again. I had no fear of being overheard; the walls were thick, and most of the household was long asleep.

  
  


"I nicked 'em out of the guards quarters, last night. They locked the armory but-" here she brandished a jangling key ring, "I, uh, liberated the keys from Captain Orran's pocket."

  
  


"You stole them?" I was half-horrified, half-delighted. The family with whom Eowyn lived, one Lord Marick and Lady Tellaryn, were renowned as paranoid tightwads, the kind who locked up the bed-linens, and counted the silver spoons after every dinner party. Apparently, the last man who'd burgled their house had been torn apart by their vicious guard dogs. 

  
  


And now we had a pair of swords! Eowyn moved as though to spar with me, but I shook my head. Instead, I ran to my bed, pulled off the linen sheets, and started wrapping my blade, knotting the swaddling tight at the hilt. Eowyn began padding her own.

  
  


"There." I grinned. "Now no one will be able to hear us."

  
  


"You're right." she said, swinging her sword expertly. "Your walls aren't so thick that no one would hear steel on steel..."

  
  


"Shall we spar?"

  
  


"Bring it on!"

  
  


**********

  
  


Eowyn didn't always appear, but every night, I lay awake as long as I could, waiting for her. Every few nights, I'd sit bolt upright when I heard her voice at the window. She would climb in, and I would light tapers as we would whisper and giggle a while, talking about what had happened in the Court that day. Then, we would take out our swords, and fight.

  
  


Through the long nights, Eowyn taught me everything she knew about swordcraft, which far outstripped my pitiful knowledge. However, I remembered the boys I had watched in my childhood, and I ended up teaching Eowyn quite a lot of what she called 'gutter fighting'. She'd toss her hair in mock scorn, and call me a street-boy. I'd laugh, then we'd fight again.

  
  


When we grew too tired to swing our swords, we'd collapse on my bed and formulate wild schemes that would get us out of Minas Tirith, and we would set out to seek our fortunes as wandering sword-slingers, ready to fight to the death. These plans would grow wilder as the night grew later, until we were giggling too hard to continue.

  
  


Once, the schemes had revolved around disguising ourselves as boys, and becoming soldiers, but our advancing womanhood soon put an end to that idea. Damn.

  
  


So it became a game to us, to see who could come up with the most insane escape plot.

  
  


"We could weave a ladder, instead of tapestries, in school, and use it to climb down the walls..."

  
  


"Or an Elven-Prince could come and take us away to his kingdom by the sea..."

  
  


"Or we could turn into eagles and fly away into the sunset..."

  
  


Eventually, we'd hear the larks singing in the garden, and Eowyn would have to slip out while the sky was still dark. I would carefully hide the swords under my mattress, and snuggle up under the covers, hoping to catch an hour or two of sleep before I had to return to the real world.

  
  


**********

  
  


And so the nights became months, the months turned to years, and suddenly, I wasn't a girl anymore, my best friend had been sent home, and I was facing an impending marriage.

  
  


Dammit, I had to get out of here.

  
  


Not a child's plot, but for real this time. For my husband-to-be was none other than Boromir, future Steward of Gondor.

  
  


Oh crap.

  
  


To be Continued...please review on the way out! 

  
  



	6. The Shoes of Drusilla Teegana

Chapter 6: The Shoes of Drusilla Teegana

  
  


It was late one night, and I was burning the midnight oil, sword practising and frantically waiting for Eowyn. It was now well past my fifteenth birthday; I had developed my woman's body, so I had to strap my breasts down each night before I took out my sword to practice.

  
  


My marriage was looming, less than a season away. It was high spring, and I was to be married on Midsummer's Day. So, needless to say, I was approaching panic.

Then, as though my situation wasn't already bad enough, my parents had finally revealed the name of my intended.

  
  


There is a custom in Gondor, dating back the time after the Last Alliance. The bride of the future Steward is chosen at birth from a powerful and noble family, a betrothal contract is signed, then the secret is concealed until the girl reached a marriageable age. Back in the olden days, this was seen as necessary security for the producer of the royal heirs, but in more recent times, it was seen as an outdated custom. Nevertheless, there was always some giggling ninny in finishing school who would proclaim that she was 'destined' to be the Stewardess of Gondor, Lady of Minas Tirith and all that rot.

  
  


Of course, there was a new girl with an equally valid claim to the throne every week, so Eowyn and I never paid them any mind.

  
  


Back to the point, I had to get out of Minas Tirith as soon as I could. A Steward's wife has no freedom; she lives in the Palace, sits in the Court, but has no voice in the ruling of the White City. Her sole purpose is to bear male heirs, so the dynasty of Stewards may continue their reign.

  
  


I couldn't bear the thought of it. As my parents had told me the news that day, I had averted my gaze to the floor, so that they couldn't see the horror in my eyes. I had learned that ladies must never show undue emotion, but by casting my eyes down, I also hid my rage. It was then that I noticed my shoes.

  
  


Now, the shoes of a stylish lady are made of silk, usually adorned with gems, beaten metal, or bits of dyed leather. My current pair were made of pale grey silk, ornamented with glossy white seed pearls.

  
  


I had never seen the sense of such footwear; certainly, these shoes were beautiful, and added to the flair of my gown, but they were silly, impractical things. All it took was an unoticed pebble in the street, and they were ruined beyond repair. Indeed, after a week of most cautious walking, they needed to be replaced anyway, as the soles would completely wear away.

  
  


You're probably wondering why I'm spending what is likely my last hour on earth ranting on about a pair of shoes that I owned when I was younger. Bear with me, there is a point to this tale. You see, I knew; I knew in my heart, with every fibre of my being, that if I became the Steward's wife, I would 'become' these shoes: a dainty, delicate thing, something that the slightest pebble thrown by life would ruin beyond repair.

  
  


My window creaked, and Eowyn climbed through, her hair tied back in pale gold braids, her nightgown covered by her dark cloak. I watched her idly from my chair by the bed.

  
  


"You know, one night, I'm gonna lock that window, just to piss you off." Eowyn just glared at me as she hung up her cloak. "What's wrong with you?" I asked. 

  
  


Eowyn sat down beside me, and took one of my hands in hers. Her eyes were rimmed in crimson, and she took a deep breath before she began. I was already dreading what I knew was coming.

  
  


"Dru...I'm going back to Rohan. I have to leave."

  
  


I didn't think I could trust my voice, so I kept my lips pressed tight together. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I'd scream.

  
  


Eowyn pressed on. "You see, I've been putting it off for a long time...my family's wanted me to come home for months and months, but I truly didn't want to go...my father is ailing, and he needs me by his side...it's my duty to go..."

  
  


I could finally control my voice. "What about your duty to me?" I asked, cold fury permeating every word.

  
  


"What?" My friend looked confused, and a bit angry.

  
  


"You'll go back to Rohan, back to your horses, back to your swords, back to whatever man you want to marry..."

  
  


Eowyn was starting to get angry. "That's not true-"

  
  


But I cut her off. "You'll leave me here, and I'll be chained to the Steward of Gondor, like a finch in a cage."

  
  


Her anger had dissolved into shock. "The Steward?"

  
  


I squeezed my temples, suddenly very weary. "Boromir, 'Wyn. I'm marrying Boromir, heir to the throne of Gondor."

  
  


"Oh, sweet Valar..." Eowyn trailed off, her tone filled with horror. "No wonder you're so angry."

"Don't you see?" I begged. "It'll kill me, 'Wynnie. It's killing me slowly, and one morning I'll wake up dead, and I'll wonder when it happened." The dread, the panic, the rage I'd held inside finally came spilling out, and suddenly I was crying, weeping like a little girl, but I didn't care. "I'll be like a china doll, dressed in a pretty gown, sitting in my pretty Court with a pretty smile on my face...and I'll be dead inside, 'Wynnie. No feelings, no tears, no pain. Just an empty shell that used to be me."

  
  


Eowyn had let me cry, patting my shoulders, and swabbing away my tears with the sleeve of her nightdress. The comforting touch and the feel of fine linen on my face calmed me down, and my sobs dwindled away to hiccups.

  
  


Finally, she said, almost awkwardly, "Do you even like him?"

  
  


"Boromir? He used to pull my hair and tell me stories about Orcs to scare me as a child! I haven't seen him since he and Faramir left, and that was years ago..." The young sons of the Steward had been sent to Rohan almost three years ago, to learn to ride and fight properly. When they returned, Boromir would learn diplomacy and other kingly skills from his old father, Denethor, who would likely rule until he died.

  
  


Eowyn looked incredulous at my admission. "By all the gods, 'Dru, maybe you'll like him! Maybe you'll be happy!"

  
  


I knew my tone was bitter, but I made no attempt to soften it. "Save me the fairy tales, Eowyn. I'm not a child. I won't live happily ever after with my prince in a castle..."

  
  


She scowled at me. "Gods, Drusilla, you are selfish. Spare me your self-pity. Do you know how many women would kill for what you would thrust away?" 

  
  


"What are you talking about?" Now I was angry.

  
  


"Do you know what my fate will be, when I return to Rohan?" she asked coldly. "No, of course you don't, so allow me to enlighten you. I'll never be married. I'll never know love. My duty will be to serve my father until he dies, as I will serve the next king, and the next, until all that is left of Eowyn, Lady of the Mark, is a bitter old woman filled with broken dreams."

  
  


"Then run away with me!" Suddenly, my anger was gone, evaporated like mist. "We planned it for so long, we can get out of here! Then no one will ever be able to tell us what to do again...those who would marry me off...those who would deny you the love you crave...it will all fade away like a bad dream." I looked her straight in the eyes, silently pleading. This was my last chance. 

  
  


"Eowyn, I finally understand. I've stayed here for so many years because I wasn't brave enough to get up and walk away. I would find the strength to leave, if only you were at my side."

  
  


I thought it was a very heartfelt speech. Unfortunately, it was lost on Eowyn. She still watched me coldly. "That is where we differ, Drusilla Teegana. You would turn your back on your duty and run away, even as your City crumbled. I, on the other hand, will stand and embrace my fate. My family, my kingdom, my people need me, and I will not turn my back on them."

  
  


Somewhere during the course of this speech, my gaze had become as cold as hers. "'Tis late, my lady. Perhaps you should remove your esteemed self from my chambers."

  
  


"Perhaps I should," she agreed in an icy voice. "Goodnight, Lady Drusilla. Farewell."

  
  


As she climbed out my window for the last time, I cursed her quietly. "May my eyes be damned before I look upon you again."

  
  


**********

  
  


That was the last time I ever saw Eowyn, Lady of the Mark, the brave, the beautiful, the sister I wished I'd had. Her final words still rang in my ears, spinning tales of duty. Duty. I hated the word. Why I, arguably the one woman in Minas Tirith who would despise it, should have this duty thrust upon me was an utter mystery.

  
  


At any rate, as I lie here, cold, aching, and so utterly alone, I want to weep. I'm sorry 'Wynnie. I'm so, so sorry...

  
  


I'm sorry I cursed you, I'm sorry that you never found the love you deserved. I'm sorry you left thinking I was a coward who ran away from my duty. I'm sorry that I never came to say goodbye. My sweet friend...Nai tiruvantel ar varyuvantel i Valar tielyanna nu vilya. May the Valar protect you on your path under the sky.

  
  


I'm sorry for so much, but I'm not sorry I left Minas Tirith. Because right after I did, I met Selka. And then my life took a turn for the weird.

  
  
  
  


To be Continued...Review, please!


	7. The Lady's New Clothes

A Note From Sun Queen: Hi people! Sorry it took so long to update, my inconsiderate teachers dumped a lot of work on me, so I was stuck writing a character analysis of Passe-Partout from Zone, a French play, instead of the adventures of Jaidru. But thank god for long weekends...the long awaited chapter seven. Enjoy, and please review on the way out! 

  
  


Chapter 7: The Lady's New Clothes

  
  


"Ooh, look Jai. Is this henna?"

  
  


My nurse and I stood by a peddler's wagon in one of the outlying villages, a few miles from city. We'd left early that morning, pacifying my parents with the excuse that we were going to search for bridal adornments. After all, some of the little villages had goldsmiths who did exquisite work.

  
  


I don't think my mother believed me for a second. She just stared at me with slitted eyes, for what could you buy in a village that we didn't have in the Market? However, she let me go, providing Jai went with me.

  
  


But, this *was* the chance I'd been waiting for. I went to my chambers and shut the door, then hurriedly searched the room. This was probably my best opportunity for escape, so I wanted to give it my best shot. I dressed quickly in my smoke-blue walking gown, the one with the full skirts and the black and gold trim; this would be useful in smuggling everything I needed out of the city.

  
  


First, my sword, the one that Eowyn had left. I strapped it to my right thigh, with a pang as I thought of my friend, shifting it so walking wouldn't be over-difficult. It was still tricky, and I resolved to lose the dress as soon as I could. On my other thigh, I knotted my dagger, and a pair of little stiletto blades, slender and very sharp in their smooth leather sheaths. That done, I dropped my skirts, and hurried to my bed.

  
  


Under the feather mattress, my little stash glowed. Coins I'd been hoarding for years, adding more whenever I could find or steal them. Perhaps twenty gold, a dozen or so of silver, and the odd bronze piece; enough to buy food and lodging for a few weeks, at least. These I stuffed into the bosom of my gown, wrapping them in linen so they wouldn't clank and reveal themselves.

  
  


That being done, I turned, and stared at my reflection in the full-length gilt glass. This was perhaps the most valuable thing I owned, a gift from my parents on my last birthday. Polished silver, smooth as a millpond, with a framed of oiled blond wood, it showed my reflection in utter clarity. The curves of my hips and breasts, a little too thick, shoulders a little too broad, jaw a bit too square, a face that was too wide, ashy blond waves that hung down my back to below my hips.

  
  


I stared at myself in the glass, mesmerized. But for mere trifles, I might have been a real beauty. Then I began to wonder; if I had been beautiful, the apple of my parents eye, a true jewel of the Court...if people watched me walk past in awe, if Boromir stood mesmerized by me, if I had been the angel of Minas Tirith that Beth had been...would I be running away right now?

  
  


I didn't know, and I didn't care. I turned my back on my looking-glass, my chambers, my life, and walked out the door without looking back.

  
  


********** 

  
  


So I stood by the peddler's wagon with Jai, fingering the earthy shades of kohl, the soft russet of the henna. Jai stood watching me, her old gray eyes narrowed. Good old Jai, she didn't miss a trick.

  
  


"You're leaving, aren't you?" she asked, not accusingly, but as though she was making idle conversation.

  
  


I didn't see any point in denying it. Jai was old, but age hadn't diminished her mind. She reached over, and paid for the dyes I'd selected. The little village market was busy on this early summer's morning, but she pulled me to a secluded corner, where none would hear us speaking. 

  
  


I can still see Jai on that gorgeous summer morning, a disapproving scowl on her old, wrinkled face, her frizzy gray hair pulled into a tight roll on the back of her head, her sensible green gown hanging neatly to her ankles. She had glared at me, and I finally spoke.

  
  


"How did you know?"

  
  


"Hmph!" she snorted. "When a young lady starts to look at paints and dyes, she's either trying to improve her appearance, or disguise herself. In your case, I guessed disguise."

  
  


My mouth had dropped open, so Jai continued. "And let me say, young Drusilla, you're not running away properly at all."

  
  


"Why do you say that?" I asked, running my hands over me walking skirt.

  
  


"Well," she replied, handing me my cosmetics, "You won't be able to walk very far in that dress; and those shoes!" She scowled at my footwear, delicate little slippers peeking out from under my skirts.

  
  


"So what do we do?"

  
  


"We go shopping."

**********

  
  


It was near evening when I stood beside Jai on the road, holding her old hands in mine. I felt like a new person, and I knew, at that moment, that Drusilla Teegana was gone forever, and in her place, someone new stood.

  
  


A pale linen undershirt was covered by a mail shirt that hung to my hips. Over that, I wore a tunic of russet-coloured leather. A double-stranded black belt encircled my waist, my sword sheathed on one hip, and my dagger on the other. With dark leggings, and heavy boots, (into which I jammed the stilettos knives), I looked like a soldier, except for some, uh, rather obvious attributes. Jai and I had discussed trying to conceal them, but we'd concluded that I would only look like a woman disguised as a man. That would arouse more suspicion. The clothing was all second-hand, naturally, bought from an outfitter's shop. The mail, the tunic, the boots, were all worn, but still serviceable. I'd never realized Jai was such a skilled negotiator. 

  
  


Then, we'd set to work on my face.

  
  


My eyelids were heavily lined, over and under, with dark, smoky kohl. My once-long curls had been chopped off just past the line of my jaw, and ash blond had turned amber red, courtesy of the henna.

  
  


Jai thought I looked either like a warrior-woman, wild and frightening beyond imagination, or a harlot. She couldn't decide which.

  
  


So I stood beside her on the road, watching the sun start to set in the west. She squeezed my hand.

  
  


"You will make sure to buy a cloak when the weather turns cold?" she asked anxiously.

  
  


"Yes, Jai." I smiled at her, my eyes much darker and forbidding than they had been this morning.

  
  


"And make sure you eat a good meal everyday."

  
  


"Yes, Jai."

  
  


"And watch out for Gondorian soldiers. Your parents will certainly send them out looking for you."

  
  


"Yes, Jai."

  
  


"And by all the stars in heaven, watch out for Orcs. The world is getting dangerous, and there are dark things everywhere. Watch your back."

  
  


"I will, don't fret. What will *you* do, Jai?" I was worried about my old nurse suddenly. If my parents learned she had a hand in my escape, I didn't want to think about what might befall her.

  
  


"Oh, wisha, wisha, don't worry yourself, maid. I have friends who can look after me, far away from the White City. I can disappear."

  
  


I kissed my Jai's cheek, and embraced her hard, choking back a sob. She patted my back soothingly, and looked me in the eye. "Don't cry, love. You'll smudge your eyes. And don't look back. Go West." And with that, she started down the road, back towards the village.

  
  


The sun had almost fallen below the horizon when I finally stirred. I set my pack of food and my bedroll down, and I took out the blue walking-dress that I'd worn that morning. I took what was left of the henna-powder, and scrubbed it hard into the material, rubbing until the dress was covered in brown stains. Then, I took my dagger, spat on the blade, and slashed long, jagged tears through the stains. I then set to work stuffing the remnants of the garment under a fallen log just off the road, carefully leaving the hem visible. If all went well, any soldiers would find this 'bloodstained' dress, but no Drusilla Teegana. She, for all intents and purposes, died that day.

  
  


And Jaidru was born. 

  
  


Good riddance.

  
  


To be Continued...Review, please! Feed the Plotbunnies!


	8. Your Worst Nightmare, Courtesy of Selka

A Note From Sun Queen: Yes! My greatest dreams have finally been realized! I have FINALLY gotten to the point when I can introduce the second of our intrepid triad, Selkanaliel. I doubt it means anything in Elvish, 'cause I made it up; I know, I really should have given her a genuine Elvish name. If it bothers you that much, call her something else. Call her Britney Spears for all I care, (actually, PLEASE don't call her that!). Just read on. And if you adore her, or hate her so much you want to kill her, good. 'Cause I wanna know; that's what the little button at the bottom is for. Review, and let me know what you think of sweet little Selka.

  
  


A quick warning, there's a bit of ickiness in this chapter. Nothing gory, but a bit disgusting, so if you have a super-weak stomach, don't read this. Pick it up when I post the next chapter, and try to imagine how Jaidru met Selka. 

  
  


Also, I describe a lot of geography in this chapter. My source was the detailed map of Gondor, Rohan, and Mordor that can be found in the back of the Fellowship of the Ring. See if you can follow Jaidru's rather, um, confused route. Look! It's proof she's not a Mary-Sue! Mary-Sues NEVER get lost. They always end up safely in Rivendell, or Lothlorien, or wherever the hell they're headed...do you think there's signposts at each crossroads, one arrow pointing to "Mirkwood, Home of the Hot, Blond, Pointy-Eared Elves" and another pointing to "The Shire, Home of the Adorable, Fuzzy-Footed Hobbits", and a third pointing to "Mordor. Scary Bad Place, Don't Go There". I also think there's a sign at each road, with a huge arrow, saying: "The Fellowship Went THAT Way. Follow Them For Free Adventure and Chance of Scoring With Hot, Blond, Pointy-Eared Elf". Tolkien must have forgotten to mention those nifty, convenient signs... 

  
  


And, just to be a little different, I think I'll let the characters introduce the next chapter!

  
  


Jaidru: Ha! I love this story! It's all about ME!

Selka: Not for long, sweetheart! It's MY turn in the spotlight! Mwahahaha!

Jaidru: Hey!

Sun Queen: Now girls, stop fighting...

Jaidru and Selka: Shut up, author-chick! *brandish scary pointy weapons at SQ*

Sun Queen: Eeep. My creations are rebelling! *SQ ducks behind computer chair.*

Kharapel: *whiny voice* When the hell am I gonna show up in the story, huh? WHEN?

Sun Queen: Soon, Khara-chan, I promise. Just as soon as I can MAKE THESE TWO STOP FIGHTING!!!

Jaidru: *sulky* Fine.

Selka: *also sulky* We'll behave.

Sun Queen: Promise?

Jaidru, Selka, and Kharapel: Promise.

Sun Queen: Good. Let the chapter begin.

Selka: YAY!

Jaidru: Hoo boy...

Kharapel: And the peasants rejoiced...

Sun Queen: Say thank you to all the nice reviewers, ladies.

Jaidru: Thankyouthankyouthankyou!

Selka: We love you!

Kharapel: You're gonna love me when I'm introduced.

Jaidru: Narcissist.

Kharapel: Why you...

*CRASH* *THUD* *OW!!* *TINKLE TINKLE* *GET YOUR TEETH OUT OF MY NECK!!* *SMACK* *THUD* *THUD* *THUD*

Selka: And that, dear readers, was the sound of a human and a dwarf falling down the stairs. Don't try this at home, kiddies...

Sun Queen: Aw crap. I think I'll just start the chapter now...

Jaidru: Medic...

  
  
  
  
  
  


Chapter 8: Your Worst Nightmare, Courtesy of Selka

  
  


Rohan in high summer. Grassland, rolling hills, turf studded with lichen-covered boulders, and bubbling springs trickling towards some great river. Bright sunlight that hurt my eyes, and warm winds that made the long grass rustle silvery-green.

  
  


I hated it.

  
  


Not Rohan, not at all. It was gorgeous, a land of rolling plains, a true Paradise in Middle-Earth. Somehow, I didn't think even the Undying Lands of the Elves could be fairer. But all the beauty under the sky is no good to a girl if she's got no one to share it with. 

  
  


But at least now, I had a bit of experience, and an inkling of a plan. I thought back to the days after my escape; after leaving Minas Tirith, I'd travelled along the Great West Road for a day before straying north. I feared that Gondorian soldiers would have been dispatched, and I'd be caught if I remained on the road. So I struck out on my own.

  
  


It was a week before I realized how far in over my head I was, because one day, as my pack getting lighter and my feet getting sorer, I crested a ridge and froze. For, spread out several miles below me, I saw the wide, glimmering expanse of the Great River, and beyond that, the dark smudge of trees that was North Ithilien. By all the Valar, I was so close I might as well have been rapping on the Black Gates themselves. I hadn't realized how near I was to Mordor. 

  
  


Despite the bright sun, I shuddered, and, feeling my knees go weak, I sat on a rock. Okay, Jaidru, 'cause that's your name now, it's time to figure out what the hell you're going to do. This isn't an adventure any more. It's real life, and you're gonna get yourself killed reeeeaaaaaal quick if you don't figure out what you're gonna do next.

  
  


I contemplated my options; I had food and water, enough to last for a few weeks, whichever path I chose. Now, what was I going to do? I had reckoned, correctly, that I was a-ways north-west of Cair Andros, several leagues east of where the Entwash flowed into the Great River. I had several possibilities open to me. 

  
  


East? The prospect terrified me. East would take me over the Great River, to the forest of Ithilien. These woods were patrolled by the Soldiers of Gondor, I'd even heard rumours that Faramir the Stewart's Son was stationed there with his battalion of soldiers. But even so, the woods were slipping into darkness. And beyond Ithilien...the Black Lands. Not number one on my list of Must-See Locations in Middle-Earth. So, my next option was...

  
  


North? That path lead to impassable marshlands. I'd heard disturbing tales as a child, about a haunted land, where ghosts and candles hovered below the murky water. I was quite a bit older now, but the idea of heading in that direction chilled me to the core, so I discarded it. 

South? It would lead me back to Gondor, and I had no desire to return to my homeland. I knew that I wouldn't be getting a warm welcome if I returned. That left me only one choice.

  
  


West.

  
  


Towards Rohan, the Golden Wood, the Misty Mountains. Towards the unknown lands of the west, the Grey Havens where my beautiful Elves had gone, towards the Sundering Sea.

  
  


I felt a smile split my face, probably my first real smile since Eowyn had left. 

  
  


West it was.

  
  


********** 

So I found myself somewhere in the middle of Rohan, during what was said to be the most beautiful summer of the Third Age. But like I said, I was getting desperate for companionship. I was afraid that I'd go raving mad, and start talking to the grass and rocks like an Elf if I didn't find a village soon.

  
  


Not to mention the fact that I was *very* low on food. I'd filled my pack at the last village I'd seen, but that had been weeks ago, and I'd been rationing ever since. But I'd bought a tiny, collapsible hunting-bow, and a supply of darts. The bow was unlike anything I'd ever seen, two slim wooden segments, each the length of my forearm, and these fitted cunningly together and slid apart when you wanted to stow it away. The darts were short, feathered arrows that I hoarded like my gold, suitable for killing small game. Unfortunately, I was a terrible shot. Several times, I managed to nail a slow, stupid gamebird that didn't have the sense to fly away when I got close enough to shoot at it. Even so, I could see that the bow had been a waste of money, and the arrows were better suited for picking my teeth. 

  
  


The merchant must have seen me coming a mile off.

  
  


At any rate, I was getting nervous. It had been more than a fortnight since I'd left the last village, and I knew I didn't have enough food left to make it back. My pack contained a week's worth of rations, and that was only if I ate sparingly. So I had no choice but to press on, hoping that I'd meet other travellers, a band of Rohirrim on their magnificent steeds, or maybe a settlement. I had money, or I could work for food.

  
  


I walked the entire day, trying to ignore the tightening in my belly, marvelling instead at the warm wind, the bright sun, the occasional rushing streams, the singing birds. Eowyn had been right. Rohan truly was a glorious place. 

  
  


The sun was setting that evening as climbed what I swore would be the last hill for the day. This one was a monster, a rolling, grassy, stone-studded giant sleeping on his back. I chuckled at my mental image; hunger does funny things to your mind, doesn't it? But the laughter froze in my throat as I crested the hill. 

  
  


Oh. Sweet. Valar.

  
  


The stench was the first thing that hit me. The reek of rot and corruption, of decay and foul things that feed on death. My knees buckled underneath me, and my behind hit the ground rather unceremoniously. But I didn't even notice, my eyes never left the valley below me.

  
  


Horses. Thousands upon thousands of reeking, rotting corpses, the ruins of beautiful, noble animals, strewn about like so much garbage. There was a drone of flies in the air, as they feasted on rotting flesh, decaying bones, spilled guts...

  
  


I promptly retched all over my boots, splattering the ground with what felt like all the food I'd eaten that week, weak, acidic vomit that made my throat burn and the world spin. I would have fallen over if I hadn't already been on the ground. As it was, I drew my knees up to my stomach, moaning, trying to steady myself.

  
  


It seemed like hours had passed by the time my limbs stopped shaking, and I could sit up and sip water from my leather flask. I spat, trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste of vomit, and only partially succeeding. Ugh.

  
  


I tried to observe my situation objectively, allowing the rational part of my mind to take control. I knew this place; Eowyn had heard news of it, and had told me it the winter before she left Minas Tirith. During the autumn of last year, a strange and horrible disease had afflicted a great many of the horses of Rohan. In one village, a single stallion would show the symptoms, then it would sweep through like a plague, sparing few animals. The sick beasts would sweat and foam as though they had run miles, then they would go mad, breaking their leads, throwing riders, smashing stable doors, and running away as though all the Orcs of Mordor pursued them. The Rohirrim were terrified of this illness, and quite suspicious that it had been the work of the dark powers in the East. At any rate, the crazed horses had congregated in a great herd, fleeing to, and obviously dying in this accursed valley. Eowyn had told me of Riders coming to this place during the first snowfall of winter, and being sick with horror and grief at the sight of their once-magnificent horses, now lying strewn about, half-frozen, half-rotted, food for carrion birds. They had called it The Horses' Barrow, and Eowyn had said that it chilled and sickened them to the very core. 

I could sympathize completely. The smell of corruption, the sight of dead, staring eyes, flaring nostrils, rotting flesh...I imagined an enormous herd of ghostly steeds, their bones knocking together as they galloped across the plains.

  
  


The image was so real that I began to shake, then I scolded myself. Only a child invents ghost stories to scare herself, and in this case, it could only make my situation worse. So I stood up, and tried to think logically. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and stars had begun to dot the sky. Soon, the moon would rise, and I reckoned that it would be just shy of full; I was in for a bright night, the kind that is best suited for travelling. The hills around this valley were rocky and treacherous, difficult to navigate through. I hadn't thought of my food supplies for some time, but I knew that I was running low, too low for comfort. I glanced around me, determined to think my situation through; travelling around this valley of death would take a long time, longer than I could afford. I had to find a village soon, otherwise I'd perish from hunger.

  
  


So, I made what was quite possibly the most rash, foolish, and downright stupid decision of my life. I decided to take my chances in the valley.

  
  


Oops.

  
  


**********

  
  


The moon had risen, a full, gleaming eye amid the stars, lighting my path as I descended the rocky scree. I had decided to travel through the night, when the flies and other carrion insects wouldn't be so active. I'd mapped the distance to the rise on the far side as being a mile, maybe two, but even so, I had no intention of losing myself in this labyrinth of horrors. I'd pulled out my parcel of little feathered arrows, the ones that had come with my hunting bow, and when I reached the valley floor, I jabbed the arrowhead deep into the ground, leaving the feathered shaft jutting out amid the rocks. This way, I could find my way out if I lost my bearings, or needed to leave in a hurry.

  
  


Plus, it was the most use these arrows had served thus far.

  
  


I had taken my new cloak out of my pack, and had wrapped it around my mouth and nose, trying to lessen the stench. It wasn't really working, so I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore it, as I was trying to ignore the grinning horse-skulls, or worse, the corpses where the flesh and hair was still somewhat intact. It seemed to me that dead eyes tracked my slow, mincing steps.

  
  


The night time stroll through the Horses' Barrow was the scariest experience of my entire life. Even now, bleeding and cold on some forsaken battlefield, it doesn't even come close. I can still remember the stench, the shadows, the leering skulls, and the sickening fear that coiled in my belly and crawled like a liquid snake towards my heart. 

  
  


And then I heard the voices.

  
  


I hadn't thought at the time that the night could get any more terrifying, but oh, look, I was wrong. Was I *ever* wrong. For, as I was rounding one great heap of corpses, I heard voices, jabbering and snarling. And I knew, though I denied it for a moment, that no Man ever spoke in such a harsh tongue, Common-speech, hisses and snarls all rolled together into a hideous, nightmarish sound.

  
  


Orcs.

  
  


A large group, some thirty or so, roasting bits of dead horses on spit over a stinking, putrid fire. Slavering, swearing Orcs, fighting and eating and speaking in their horrible grating voices.

  
  


Understand, this was my rational mind that catalogued these things. The rest of me was frantically stuffing my fist in my mouth, fighting down the scream that was trying to erupt from my throat. Oh no oh no oh no oh no...

  
  


"Cursed horseflesh. Rotted and ripe, and not a taste of anything else for weeks!"

  
  


"Shut your mouth, Grulash! Lucky enough to have meat, and yet you whine like a dog!"

  
  


The other Orcs laughed as Grulash and his opponent fought, scattering embers from the fire, cursing as they were spattered with blood and ash.

  
  


I stood, rooted to the spot, unable to back up even as mind screamed to run away. I thought of my sword, of my daggers, but I knew, knew that while I might be able to fight off as many as four Orcs at once...there were too many now, far too many. So, inch by inch, I forced my legs backwards, feet falling heavily to the ground, backing away from the firelight, away from the nightmarish creatures, my back brushing against a particularly ripe corpse, dislodging a flood of writhing, gleaming maggots. I began to wheeze, my hands clamped over my mouth and nose, but tears leaking from my eyes as sobs or screams tried to force their way out.

  
  


One step, then another, backing away slowly, oh so slowly. Then I froze, as one Orc, an enormous slobbering brute, stood up from his place by the fire, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in air. A voice that paralysed my bones, hard and grating.

  
  


"I smell man flesh...alive!"

  
  


That did it. The scream finally tore loose, and I turned and fled, driven by mindless panic. Behind me, the yowls and screeches of the pursuing Orcs split the night, each one desperate for something fresher than year-old horse. I ran, every once of terror fuelling my legs, crashing through rotting skeletons, heedless of the insects and foul creatures that I was disgorging. But I knew I couldn't outrun the Orcs, knew I couldn't hide, couldn't fight, knew I was doomed...

  
  


Then something struck me hard in the head, and everything exploded into starlight, then blackness. 

  
  


**********

  
  


I suppose, due to the terror of that night, the utter panic and absolute hideousness, my mind simply shut down, for I have no memory of what happened after that night in the Horses' Barrow. What I remembered next was this.

  
  


The blackness had been warm and soothing, and I had welcomed it. Then, what seemed like mere moments later, I felt icy, sloshing water on my face. My eyes snapped open, and I frantically sucked in a lungful of river water. Strong fingers gripped the back of my neck, and hauled my head out the water. Choking and gasping, I groped at the matted reddish curls that hung soaking and cold over my eyes. When I finally blinked away the water and the blurriness, I wondered if I was still dreaming. 

  
  


The sun was shining, a bird was singing somewhere, and I was a dripping, muddy mess, dumped in a slovenly heap beside a swiftly flowing stream. What dominated my attention, however, was the figure sitting perched beside me.

  
  


Oh. Sweet. Valar.

  
  


A cream-coloured linen shirt, flared at the sleeves, under a vest of smooth brown leather, embroidered with silver thread. Dark legging that clung like a second skin to long, shapely legs. Lean, delicate hands, their slender fingers tapping on the cunning studded gauntlets that sheathed the wrists. A slender, swan-like neck that flowed into curvaceous breasts, which were utterly proportioned to the slim hips. Skin that seemed to glow, pale as the light of the full moon on the petals of a lily. A long sweep of silken sunlight, hair that hung long and free down to the hips. And such a face...full, pouty lips, a narrow, aquiline nose. High cheekbones under huge violet eyes, the curve of perfect eyebrows.

  
  


And the ears...each tip tapering to a definite, flawless point. An Elf. I knew it must be, for nowhere among men would such beauty be found. An Elf, and *all* woman, from what I'd seen.

  
  


I'd stared at her, speechless, for a long moment. And she'd swept her violet eyes down my narrow, dishevelled frame. Then she raised one perfect eyebrow sardonically, and Selkanaliel the Butterfly Elf said the words that dumped her in my life for good.

  
  


"Eewwww."

  
  
  
  


To be Continued...Review, please!


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